Another call pulled Karl’s mind from his mulling. Another scraper was sinking into the mud. It seemed all of Austria-Hungary was insisting on following it. “We’ll need to dig some wells and pump the water out!” Karl shouted over to the foreman.
The water would have to be pulled away long enough for them to get concrete walls and a floor in, and even then there was going to be serious seepage. They would have to design for it. Meanwhile, he would have to find a way to convince the nobility of Austria . . . not that there were no nobles. That was impossible, whatever Mike Stearns thought. No. The trick was to convince them that everyone was noble. Karl snorted. Even that was the work of Sisyphus. But at least that way he could move a boulder at a time. First, convince them that the Barbies were nobles—that all up-timers had to be considered noble—and then that they’d better learn to treat Gretchen Richter and her like as noble.
He figured he should reach that point about the time his grandchildren were doddering old fools.
The Hofburg Palace, Vienna
“Thank you for seeing me, Leo,” Karl said, holding up a bottle. It was fortified wine from the shop in Race Track City. Karl knew that Leo had not been to Race Track City in the two weeks since the incident. The Barbies hadn’t been invited to the palace either, but they didn’t seem particularly bothered by the fact.
“Welcome, Karl,” Leo said without any particular rancor, but with less real welcome in his tone than Karl was used to from Leo. Still, he did wave Karl to a chair.
Marco Vianetti was standing by the door, like he had been for years. Before the trip to Grantville, Karl would have barely noticed the man. Just one of Leo’s retainers. He would have been perfectly willing to say anything to Leo in front of Marco, because he just assumed that Marco was trustworthy as Leo’s man. And, in truth, Marco probably was trustworthy. But he was also going to talk to the other servants and not all of them would be.
Karl sat down and handed the bottle to Marco. Once the man had poured for them, Karl said, “Marco, with the archduke’s permission, I would like to speak to him privately. Would you mind waiting outside?”
It was hard to tell which of them was more shocked by the suggestion that Marco’s presence might matter. But it was Leo who spoke up. “Marco is completely trustworthy, Karl. How can you doubt it?”
“I don’t, Your Grace. It’s more a matter of good practice. It’s what the up-timers call the ‘need to know principle.’ The question isn’t whether someone is trustworthy, because anyone can slip. The question is: do they need to know? If they don’t need to know private information, it’s better if they don’t know. If, after our talk, you decide Marco needs to know, then by all means tell him. This way you have the choice, that’s all.”
“Well, you’ve certainly made it all seem most mysterious,” Leo said, sounding intrigued.
“I didn’t intend to, Your Grace,” Karl said, thinking of a talk he had had with Melissa Mailey and Prince Vladimir of Russia on the subject of serfs, slaves and espionage. Mary Bowser had been Miss Mailey’s prime example, Ivan Susanin had been Vladimir’s. Karl had found himself in the middle and seeing both sides, yet less able to persuade anyone of his point of view, because he was convinced that they were both right and wrong. Servants were, in Karl’s experience, in the main loyal to their employer and that was the larger part of the trust that members of the nobility had in their servants. On the other hand, there was an unthinking assumption that the lower classes lacked the wit to engage in the sort of subtle subterfuge necessary for betrayal. The attitude was all mixed together with a belief that the nobles were treating their servants quite well and so there was no reason for the servants to be disloyal.
Karl had no idea how he was going to make clear in an afternoon’s chat what had taken him three years in Grantville to learn. But he didn’t say anything and waited. After a few moments, Leo shrugged a little and gave a little wave. Marco left the room with no objection.
“So, what is this so private of private talks, Karl? If it’s about the Wendell girl, Marco might as well have stayed. He was there when she attacked me.”
This wasn’t shaping up to be an enjoyable interview, Karl thought. “Do you think that Sarah agreed to a morganatic marriage because she accepts our notions of rank?”
“Why else?”
“She accepted it because she doesn’t care. No, not even just that. It’s because she is condescendingly willing to allow us our barbaric beliefs as long as we don’t spit in the soup or piss on the sofa. You have no idea how arrogant up-timers are. To Sarah, marrying a court prince of the Austro-Hungarian Empire isn’t marrying up. It’s marrying down. Different in no important way from David Bartley’s mother marrying a minor burgher from Badenburg or any of the up-timer women who have married peasants.”